My One Consolement
by that is secret
Summary: Dead Man on Campus fic. Warning: disturbing. Cooper has a little problem involving sharp objects.


A/N: I would like to warn people before reading this. This is highly rated for a reason - namely, cutting. It's kind of disturbing, okay? So please don't read it if you don't like the idea of that.  
  
  
  
Blood.  
  
The blood. It's so beautiful. Drips over my wrist, clinging to the hairs there. It's on the razor, perfect against the gleaming metal. I can smell it; metallic, salty, warm.  
  
This is what I live for. This moment, when the razor ghosts over my skin, barely leaving a scratch; then deeper, and deeper, and deeper, until the blood is flowing strong.  
  
When the pain is the worst, the knife is never sharp enough.  
  
What do they see? The goofy pot-head, that they think has never cracked open a book in his life? The tease, the joker, the light-hearted bastard. Oh, and they can fuck themselves, fuck themselves, fuck themselves.  
  
I lost interest in the drugs, after Josh broke my bong. It just wasn't *doing* it for me anymore. It wasn't working, the pain was getting worse. . . and worse. . . and it wouldn't go away. Then that one day. . .  
  
It was just lying there, shining and perfect and whole. And sharp. Yes, very sharp. I didn't get any blood that time. Just a scratch. The next time, a tiny trickle. And here I am now, feeling faint again. Like I'm going to pass out again. Blood drops down onto the open book on the floor, staining the page. Another thing they never knew: I have a secret passion for poetry. There's nothing better than a dose of Yeats when you're down. Except, of course, for a dose of what is now staining one of his verses.  
  
It keeps me through the day, you know. I'm more addicted to it than I ever was to drugs. I think it's ironic that the only thing that takes away my pain is pain. Exquisite pain. I like that word; exquisite. It falls on my ear in such a way. . . a way that sums up everything about this. About me and this razor and my body.  
  
You hear people talking about "self-mutilation." How it's so sick and all. I always nod and agree. I don't mention the reasons why I suddenly prefer long-sleeved shirts. Why clothing covers every inch of my skin that it can.  
  
Because all of that skin - it's scarred. I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I strip, and step in. The water and the blood mix, and it hurts. It stings.  
  
I love it.  
  
I look down. They do scare me, those scars. They're everywhere. They cover my stomach, my chest, my legs; they're all over my ankles and feet and wrists. Some of them are faint, others delightfully strong.  
  
I remember the first scars; how small they were. I remember hiding them - oh no, couldn't let anyone see that cheerful ol' Cooper might have problems again! After all, he's getting over those now, right? Wrong.  
  
The scars got larger and deeper. There's ones there, that I don't remember causing. I don't remember how I got them, but they are there and they are my mark. Mine.  
  
Do I scare you? Do I scare the shit out of you? I'm sick. I am sick, in the head, in the heart, in everything. I am so fucking sick that I should have been in the hospital long ago.  
  
I hold my wrist up to my face, examine it. The old. . . *mutilations* lace with the blood running down my arm. Pretty. I lick it gently. Let the blood soak into my tongue. It tastes strange. It tastes like it smells. Metallic and all. It tastes *good*.  
  
I hold the razor between my thumb and fingers. Twist it a bit, look at it. Lift up my foot and slash it across the sole. The jolt of it makes me cry out, as softly as I can keep it. I set my foot down and the blood starts to ooze out from underneath. I lift my foot again, and the running water from the shower head blots out the print it left. I sigh.  
  
I relish this. It's beautiful, it makes me feel alive. Ironic again, that what could kill me makes me feel that way.  
  
Oh. I'm starting to feel dizzy again. That delicious light-headed feeling. . . as if I'm going to fall over. I close my eyes and, leaning against the wall, slide down. Let myself descend into that scarlet vortex again and I laugh. Laugh at it all, at everything, at nothing, at myself, at you, at them, at this mixture of red and clear liquids.  
  
So what do you think about me now? 


End file.
